The Inconceivable Life of Quinn Page 3

  “Watch it, Ben. I’m not sure you realize how entitled—”

  “Can I get by you now? I was on my way to the shower.”

  “No. Not until we’ve settled—”

  Quinn couldn’t take any more.

  “Mom?” she called out. “Can you fix this for me?”

  Katherine came in, her hair wet and pinned haphazardly on top of her head, wearing her black full slip but not the dress that went over it. She and Gabe had gotten home only about half an hour ago. Since then, they’d been running around getting ready and helping the kids get ready while taking phone calls and answering texts. And it had turned out that Ben thought he wasn’t going, which was what led to the fight. Not that fights were unusual when Ben was around—most often between him and Gabe. He’d moved out about a year ago after an especially big one (over Ben’s decision to leave college to be on a reality show about urban surfers) and was only staying at home temporarily now; there’d been a burst pipe in his Bed-Stuy apartment and his floor was being replaced.

  Quinn missed her brother. She didn’t miss the fighting.

  “Why does it smell like smoke in here?” Katherine glanced around Quinn’s bedroom.

  “Can you do my necklace?” Quinn said, ignoring her mother’s question. She wasn’t about to tell her that Ben had been smoking on the fire escape.

  Katherine took the thick silver chain with a pendant of velvety aqua sea glass, murmuring, “This will be perfect.” She attached the clasp and admired Quinn, who had ended up borrowing a sapphire-blue linen sheath dress from her. “I’ll actually be surprised if your thyroid is off. You look so beautiful and healthy. When did Dr. Kumar say you’d get the results?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said, rubbing the pendant. “Next week or something.”

  Her skin felt clammy at the lie.

  Part of Quinn wished her mother had gotten home in time for her to talk to her about it. She needed someone she trusted to commiserate with her about Dr. Kumar’s insanity.

  But even though her mom would agree that the doctor was nuts, she’d probably be even more worried than Quinn was. And what could she do to help? Quinn had already done what could be done at this point. After researching online and confirming that there was no way she could have gotten pregnant through clothing, she Googled false positive pregnancy tests. While it did seem that false positives were rare, she discovered a site that said hormones created by a certain type of tumor could cause it to happen. A tumor. She’d tried not to panic and decided that the best thing would be for her to go back to her pediatrician for a real check-up. He knew her, and he’d be able to figure out what was really wrong. (Please, don’t let it be a tumor.) She’d already left a message at his office, and there was nothing more her mother could do. No reason to tell her parents until after the party, when they weren’t so stressed out.

  As if on cue, her father yelled from the stairs, “Katherine! What’s taking so long up there? I just got a frantic call from Suzanne!”

  When Quinn was dressed and ready, she waited outside on the front steps to escape the tension. Dried brown leaves littered the ground prematurely. It hadn’t rained in ages; the sky must have been punishing the trees for something. She dragged the heavy green hose from under the stoop, gave the plants in the window boxes and the pots on the steps a drink, and splashed some water on her arms and the back of her neck.

  Everything was so still—air, leaves, even a squirrel perched on the wrought-iron gate—like they were all holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

  The party was in one of the newer apartment buildings in Park Slope—all glass and steel and cement. Something made Quinn’s skin tingle uncomfortably. Probably whatever cleaner they used to keep the glass so spotless. After Gabe introduced the kids to the hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Simon, Lydia disappeared down a long, art-lined corridor with their similar-age daughter. Ben immediately began flirting with an attractive youngish woman, of course. A quick scan of the sprawling, semi-crowded room didn’t reveal any high school–age guests for Quinn to talk to. She was probably too preoccupied to carry on a coherent conversation, anyway.

  Normally, she would have surreptitiously messaged with Jesse or the Dubs, but none of them had cell service, so she tried to appear occupied by the art in the living room, moving from one piece to the next. She spent minutes focusing on the brushstrokes of one painting. They were the only things to focus on, really, since the painting was all black. The rhythm and gesture of the strokes made it look like the surface of the ocean at night, making her think of a secret midnight swim she took at the beginning of the summer, the feeling of freedom and electric joy that came with disappearing under the blackness. She stood, fiddling with her necklace and staring, wishing she could dive in and vanish under the waves. Words whispered in her head: A still midnight sea, deeply asleep . . . The start of a poem she once knew?

  A touch on her shoulder made her flinch. She turned.

  “They don’t bite.” Her father nodded his salt-and-pepper head toward the crowd. “Or if they do, at least they’re not rabid.”

  “I know,” Quinn said, making an effort to smile. “I was just looking around.”

  He studied the black painting. His eyes matched his shirt—the bright blue of a gas flame—and he had on the floral-print tie Quinn had given him for his birthday. He’d probably start wearing only solids and stripes if he won, like most politicians seemed to.

  “I think we’ve seen work by this artist at the Whitney,” he said. “I could ask Suzanne to come tell you about the collection.”

  “God, no.”

  He chuckled. “Right. Well, if it makes any difference, I’m really glad you’re here.” He rumpled her hair in that annoying parental way.

  A few minutes after he rejoined the throng, servers started passing around flutes of champagne for a toast. Quinn’s parents were both engaged in conversations; she couldn’t catch either of their eyes to ask if she should take a glass. They were usually pretty relaxed about stuff like that, especially with toasts, so she took one.

  The room quieted down when Mrs. Simon introduced Gabe. Quinn sipped her champagne and tried to stop worrying about what might be wrong with her as her father smoothly delivered a string of phrases she’d heard different versions of over and over since his campaign began. Blah, blah, blah. She only tuned back in when he said, “Also, some good news: The Times is going to run a feature on me next week.”

  Another article? What more was there to say? There’d already been ones on everything from his ideas on health care reform to his prowess at bowling to his childhood—something he never used to talk about because his mother had abandoned him when he was only four. Quinn had grown up being told that personal family business should never leave the house; now everything was fodder. (As long as it was spun the right way, of course—his mother’s abandonment as the catalyst for his self-sufficiency and independence, etc.)

  “The writer is not only a fellow Sloper,” he went on, “he’s joined us here tonight. Max?” He searched the crowd until his gaze landed on a youngish guy with chunky black glasses. The guy waved hesitantly, as if he hadn’t wanted to be outed. “So if he tries to talk to you, be candid. But only about my strengths.” Everyone laughed. Gabe finished up by thanking the guests for their support of his “champagne.” “Freudian slip,” he said, as people laughed again. “While I do appreciate our gracious hosts’ support of my champagne, I appreciate your support of my campaign even more.”

  Quinn hadn’t intended on drinking the whole glass, but she knew it would make small talk easier, and would maybe help her stop worrying, so she ended up turning her back to the crowd and finishing it. And she did begin to feel less uptight. She got a second glass from the cute bartender because the flutes were so skinny, and wandered down the empty hallway, pretending to look at the art while she drank. The bubbles were definitely lightening her thoughts. And, honestly, why was she so worried? She couldn’t be pregnant, so that wasn’t the issue.
And the tumor thing had sounded really, really rare. Probably the whole thing was just a ridiculous mistake. She’d be telling all her friends soon and they’d be laughing. Dr. Kumar probably watched that reality show Pregnant at Sixteen, or whatever it was called. “Teenage girl? Must be pregnant!”

  After downing her last sip, she went back to the main room, wishing she hadn’t borrowed her mother’s wobbly high heels. Could she take them off? No, bad idea. She set her empty glass on a side table and glanced around for someone to talk to. There was a buzzing in her head and she was weirdly aware of her eyelids blinking. Wasn’t there anyone who looked friendly? Ben had already disappeared out the door toward the elevator, maybe just for a smoke, but probably for good. There, that older woman with pinkish-orange hair puffed on top like cotton candy, eating a deviled egg. She looked okay. Quinn went up and introduced herself. And yes, the woman—Mrs. Gilchrist, but Quinn thought of her as Mrs. Puff—was chatty and full of funny observations.

  She told a story about how she and Mr. Puff had once accidentally grown marijuana in their garden in Arizona. They hadn’t known what it was until they had some friends over and one of them was a cop. “Luckily he was a cop who appreciated the merits of a good doobie,” she said, and she and Quinn both laughed.

  And then there was silence. It was Quinn’s turn to talk but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The buzzing in her head was distracting. She was also a little dizzy.

  “Pretty necklace,” Mrs. Puff said.

  Quinn glanced down. She’d been fiddling with the pendant again. “Oh. Thanks.”

  Silence.

  “Meryl—my dad’s mom—left it to me when she died,” Quinn said. “A few weeks before I was born. She didn’t even know me.”

  “Oh. That’s nice, hon.” A polite smile, then more silence. Quinn was going to say something else, about how surprised she was when her dad gave her the necklace on her last birthday, since he hated his mother so much, but Mrs. Puff waved at a man across the room and Quinn could tell she was bored with the conversation.

  “Want to hear something funny that happened to me today?” Quinn said. The words spilled out, unplanned. All of a sudden she needed someone else to know. Needed to hear that, yes, it was crazy.

  “You bet!” Mrs. Puff’s eyes sparked. “I’ve been talking your pretty ears off.”

  Wait! Don’t say it! “I found out I’m pregnant.” Shit.

  “I’m not!” Quinn clarified before Mrs. Puff could react. “Definitely not! But that’s what the stupid doctor said even though I told her it’s impossible. It’s impossible because . . .” She lowered her voice. “I’ve never, you know. Not even close. But the doctor still insisted on testing me. Isn’t that ridiculous? That’s what makes it funny.” She smiled to emphasize her point.

  A furrow deepened between Mrs. Puff’s penciled-in brows. “Well, darlin’—”

  “I’m not pregnant,” Quinn said again. “Look at me. Do I look pregnant?” She turned from side to side, smoothing down her dress. Almost bumped into a guy carrying a tray of glasses. Oops.

  “Uh, no,” Mrs. Puff said. “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s pretty funny. I mean, what if a doctor told you you were pregnant? It’s just as impossible, right? So wouldn’t you think it was funny?”

  “Hon,” Mrs. Puff said, “I don’t think doctors make mistakes about things like that.”

  “Well, they must,” Quinn said, getting frustrated.

  “I really don’t think they do.”

  “But I’m telling you, it’s impossible. So obviously they do.” This woman was as bad as Dr. Kumar!

  “Okay, hon. Okay.” Mrs. Puff touched Quinn’s hand. “Have you told your parents about this, dear?”

  “No,” Quinn snapped, pulling her hand away. “Because it doesn’t matter. Don’t you get it? I don’t care what the stupid doctor said! There’s no way I’m pregnant!”

  Mrs. Puff glanced around. Quinn followed her gaze. Everyone nearby was staring. Including her father.

  His fingers pressed into her forearm as he led her down a hall, into the Simons’ kitchen, and over by an open pantry, away from where caterers were refilling silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. His tight grip made her pulse pound. Katherine followed them. As Quinn explained everything, her father kept wiping the sweat that glistened on his forehead.

  “I would have told you sooner,” Quinn said. “But I didn’t want to worry you before the party.”

  “So you thought you’d tell a complete stranger, instead?” Gabe gestured toward the living room. “You do realize everyone in there now thinks you’re pregnant? Including Max Smith, the Times reporter?”

  Champagne bubbles swelled in her stomach. “But I’m not. That’s the point.”

  “Of course you’re not!” he said, then added, “Are you?”

  “No! I told you—Jesse and I haven’t even had sex. I swear.”

  A crash came from across the room. Shards of glass and bright orange shrimp lay at the feet of a caterer. Ice cubes skittered everywhere.

  Quinn had turned her head at the noise too suddenly. She rested her hand against the wall for balance.

  “Have you been drinking?” Gabe said.

  “I just . . . I had some for the toast. It was—”

  “Can we back up a minute?” Katherine interrupted. She put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder and turned to Quinn. “Are you absolutely sure Dr. Kumar understood you’re not sexually active?”

  “Yes. I’m telling you, she’s crazy.”

  “It’s malpractice,” Gabe said. “We should have her license revoked.”

  “Gabe,” Katherine said, “I’m going to take Quinn home and try to get in touch with Dr. Kumar. Do you want to come with us?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to stay. And we don’t want to turn this into more of a thing. But call me the minute you speak with her.”

  Quinn followed her parents across the kitchen, avoiding missed ice cubes and a shrimp with its head still on that stared up at her accusingly from the black marble floor. The sound of people talking and laughing grew louder in the hallway. Quinn stopped. She had to say something before her father got swallowed up in there.

  “Dad?”

  “What?” he said, turning.

  “I didn’t mean to ruin your party. I thought it was funny. I wouldn’t have said it if there was any chance it was true.”

  “Well,” he said, his voice softening a bit, “look at it this way—it may not have been funny, but I’m fairly certain some people found it entertaining.”

  “They’ll still vote for you?”

  “Are you kidding? Would you vote for this face?” He pulled a mock-serious frown and held his chin between thumb and index finger. Quinn thought the anger might be gone from his eyes.

  “Uh, yes?” She managed a smile.

  “Well, then. Nothing to worry about.”

  Car chase. Click. Diamond earrings for $19.99. Click. People fighting on The Preston Brown Show. Click, click, click . . .

  Quinn sat on the couch, next to her mother, who had her phone to her ear. Katherine hadn’t been able to reach Dr. Kumar, since it wasn’t a life or death matter, so she’d called her closest friend, Alex, an OB/GYN in Boston, and had Quinn tell her everything. Now Katherine and Alex were conferring. Quinn held the remote in one hand and was rubbing her pendant between her fingers with the other. The weather had broken. Raindrops pummeled the window panes. The situation didn’t seem at all funny anymore.

  She wanted to be in a tent with Jesse. Or somewhere deep under the waves in that black painting. Anywhere but here.

  “I understand,” Katherine said. “Of course, Al. I’ll let you know. Thanks so much. Love you.”

  She put the phone down, took the remote from Quinn, and clicked the TV off. The only sound was the hammering of the rain. Neither of them spoke.

  “Did she say it might mean something else is going on?” Quinn finally asked. “Like, a tumor—”

  “No
,” Katherine said. “No. She didn’t.”

  “Or maybe it’s something to do with all my weird sensitivities. Maybe my hormones are screw—”

  “Quinn.” Katherine rested her hands on Quinn’s knees and stared her in the eyes. “She said that you’re pregnant.”

  Thunder rumbled. Every cell in Quinn’s body was freaking out—hot, cold, numb, buzzing. She was ice, water, and steam, all at once. A physical impossibility.

  PETER VEGA

  Three hours later and ten rain-soaked blocks away from the Cutlers’ house, Max Smith sat at his computer, determined to finish a draft of his Times article before going to bed. His roommate, Peter Vega, crouched nearby, placing an empty bucket under the air conditioner so water wouldn’t pool on the floor the way it did when it stormed.

  “He’s obviously paranoid I’m going to mention his daughter,” Max said. An email had come from Gabe Cutler a couple of minutes earlier, joking about the commotion and reiterating that it was a misunderstanding.

  “Aren’t you tempted?” Peter said. “Cutler wouldn’t be so upset if she weren’t actually knocked up.” Peter wrote for the gossipy NYC blog Gotham Gazer, and he was tempted. Things like this didn’t happen in Cutler’s world of the New York liberal elite—especially not in holier-than-thou Park Slope. And to the daughter of a probable congressman? (A quick Google search had shown she was pretty, too, which always helped—big time.)

  “I’ll leave the public embarrassment of minors to you, thanks,” Max said. “And the lawsuits.”

  Sadly, Peter knew Max was right. Not to mention that the girl would probably get an abortion tomorrow and make the whole juicy story disappear. It sucked, because Peter hadn’t come up with anything good lately, and his editor had been on his case.

  The wind picked up outside and water trickled into the bucket, confirming it was in the right spot. Peter stood. He’d done what he could do. For tonight.

  QUINN

  Quinn’s bedroom was a mountainous landscape of all her clothes and possessions.